Well, faithful readers, you patience has paid off. Although, I'll be ASTOUNDED if anyone stuck around for the past 4 years, but for those of you who did: you are wonderful beautiful people. The main reason this update happened was because I've been reading this fic out loud in installments to my mom's writer's group at our spring barbecue every year, and last year I caught up to where I'd left off. So! I had to write more! And of course, I did it VERY late at night/early in the morning before. Still, I think my writing has improved a bit since then, although I tried to stay somewhat within the length that I had for previous chapters. But enough techno-chatter, here's the update!
For Jack, there was just something wrong about being dressed in Sunday best on a Monday night. Didn't that defeat the whole purpose of it being called Sunday best? Oh well, dressed in Sunday best he was. When his father hosted a dinner party, many stops were pulled out. Jack was hovering in the corner, idly watching the guests engaging in their various after-dinner activities and chatter. Most of them had spent their arrival time fawning intermittently over Jack, praising his return and his safety, and then thankfully got tired of it when the refreshments were served.
Tucker Wayne and his father were there, although Jack knew that it was only his own father's need to keep his public image in check that the Waynes had been invited at all. Earnest Merridew did not like Bruce Wayne, and, as much as it would amuse Jack, it had nothing to do with the whole "sharing a name with a comic book character" affair. Pauline had said that when she had first known them at the University, they were not only roommates but best friends. Now, a chill not unlike an approaching blizzard filled the room whenever the two were in close proximity. To Jack, it was a miracle that they were even living in the same city, much less neighboring houses. Had it not been for the "mission" placed upon him by Reverend Fox to discover the reasons for his father's harsh nature, Jack would have left the reasons behind Earnest's and Bruce's split-up a mystery.
Jack had spent the evening glancing over at Tucker occasionally, but still choosing to avoid direct contact. I'll do it before the end of the night, he told himself Help break the ice between us for tomorrow. Tucker seemed to be acting the same, throwing the occasional glance over at him, but not appearing to want to engage in conversation. About five seconds after Jack had reflected on this, it became moot.
"W-what ho, Merridew!" The voice bounced out of nowhere and hit Jack slightly upside the head. He turned to face its origin.
"Hu…llo, Tucker?" mumbled Jack, trying to simultaneously process Tucker's sudden materialization at his side and the fact that he was even speaking to him at all. Now that they were looking each other in the face properly, they could drink in the differences that had befallen the other in the year since they had last met. Jack couldn't help but notice that Tucker's eyes held a curious glint in them. What was that? Was it fear? Was it reverence? Not that Jack had ever paid much attention to his next-door-nemesis's eyes before, but he couldn't help but notice that there was something…new there. He also seemed to be fidgeting slightly in small motions akin to a child who has just been asked to recite a poem they memorized and is trying desperately to remember the next line while they are speaking the previous line.
"I…heard about your adven...what happened to you…" he said, still sounding like he was reciting something "And I would just like to extend…my deepest…deepest…"
Oh, wonderful, thought Jack. His dad's probably given him a sympathy speech to say to me. As if I need any more of THAT.
But that wasn't where this was going.
"Oh, Christ, I can't do this here…" Tucker suddenly seized Jack by the forearm and pulled him into an empty sideroom. There, he straightened himself again and bowed. "Jack Merridew, I'm so deeply terribly sorry for all the hurt and the tussling we've done in the past…" he came upright again to look Jack in the face "…and I thought you should know that I've grown up a lot since those days because fighting is barbaric and childlike and we're going to gentlemen some day so we might as well start being sophisticated while we're young and can be told what we're doing, so here I am: Tucker Ponsomby Reginald Wayne, extending my hand to you in friendship despite our differences, Mr. Jack I'm-so-sorry-I've-forgotten-your-middle-names Merridew!"
Jack stared. Then he began to laugh, not just because of the silly delivery of Tucker's speech, but because he had realized a few things just by listening to it. Jack didn't need Tucker to tell him that fighting was barbaric; he'd seen it himself. Real fighting, too. Not just this boys-will-be-boys child's play from their younger days. Also, he recognized at last what that new glint in Tucker's eyes was, for he had heard it lacing the apology: it was maturity. Nervous fidgeting nature aside, there was something to be said for the fact that he was willing to apologize like this. Even though Jack could tell that everything in Tucker's speech, especially the beginning, had begun with some prompt from a talking-to from his father, there was also no denying that much of what he said had come from the heart. It was peppered quite heavily in his voice and was written in almost charming detail on his face. The blush at Jack's peal of laughter just served to augment it. The noise subsided quickly, though.
"I'm sorry," said Jack, thinking of a cover-up "I just didn't know your middle name was 'Ponsomby'." He kept his smile, but made it into a more sincere smile. "I've done some growing up, too. Took me the round-about way to get there, though." He held out his hand, and from then on a childish rivalry was dead. A year can do a lot to change people, even two boys, for what followed after this forging of a new friendship from the ashes of a defunct sour relationship…was simple small-talk.
"So what was with that 'what ho' you greeted me with?"
"Oh, it's from this book I'm reading." Tucker produced a small volume from his pocket. "It's called The Mating Season. I really only bought it because I thought it was a dirty book. No such luck. Funny as hell, though."
So Tucker had matured in more than one way, it seemed. The closest Jack had ever come to thinking about girls was the literal "mind centering on a person who was female" because the person in question was Kieu, and she had been talking to him. He'd never thought about girls in that way before.
"Oh?" said Jack. "What's it about?"
"Well," said Tucker "It's about this dimwitted rich bloke who has to switch places with a friend of his who likes newts, and there's all this insanity with girls they're engaged to and crazy aunts and…"
Jack's concentration was broken by an unexpected sight. While Tucker babbled on about his book, Pauline and Bruce strode swiftly into an adjoining room together. They seemed to be talking about something rather heated and important. Whatever it was, it was big enough that they took no notice of the two boys, talking over each other, even. Pauline looked distressed and Jack couldn't tell if Bruce's attitude was one of reassurance or insistence.
Next thing he knew, they were lip-locked.
"…I mean, with all the agony this chap has to go through with women, it's a wonder he hasn't started shagging his manservant." Tucker looked up to see Jack standing completely agape, eyes the size of something quite closely resembling dinner plates. "What is it?"
"…Your dad's snogging my mum."
What happened next happened in too short a span of time for Jack to believe that he could only remember it in slow motion.
First, there was the scream. His father's scream. That vocal explosion of rage often associated with discovering your spouse engaging in illicit behavior with someone else. Laden with alcohol, the physical accompaniment was bound to be more extreme than usual.
Then, there was the running. Jack didn't know what could have possibly compelled his legs to dash him towards his father, especially his father drunk and on the warpath, except a desire to protect his mother. To defend something instead of trying to destroy it, especially if the object to be defended was the object that had previously tried to provide defense.
Finally, there was the smash. The beer bottle…or was it wine? He couldn't tell…wielded by his enraged father, presumably aimed at his mother or Bruce, came crashing down upon his head with a violent CRACK.
And with the falling of broken glass and broken son, the evening ended.
Yeah, I made an indirect Jeeves and Wooster reference. It's kinda my obsession right now. Again, no idea when I'll update this again, but I WOULD certainly love to finish it!
